You might have noticed that the tone and content of my blog has changed – I only rarely get involved in politics now.
Mainly that’s because things I predicted a year ago, and more, are coming to pass. The disabled now really ARE the 21st century equivalent of the mid 1930s Jews in Nazi Germany. All that’s lacking is the extermination camps, but even without them the death rate is ramping up.
The workhouse has apparently arrived in the form of “Residential Training” for re-skilling the unemployed (only slightly dented by the fact that there are no bloody jobs). Can similar but permanent facilities for those who simply cannot work – i.e. us – be far behind? What would be the current version of picking oakum?
And the NHS is now far beyond resuscitation. No matter what Labour says, to take it back would mire them in litigation for years and they can’t risk that, it would bankrupt them. And they might well lose.
And so it goes.
It gives me no pleasure to have been right, and were I to write about it, it would be impossible not to appear boastful – even these few short paras could be so construed by those in the right mood – so I don’t.
So, avoiding contentious issues, and writing about myself, or food – especially food – is much more popular, and I think it’s time to return my blog to what it was – a source of information on a wide range of subjects relating to disability, mobility, and disabled people, with a focus on the kitchen, which is where the main current interest seems to lie.
I have to be very careful, though, and not give the DWP the impression that I can spend half my life in the kitchen. A fair bit of the activity about which I write – and I’m not telling you which, it would spoil the illusion – takes place in my head if I’m too ill to do it for real, which I frequently am. It will be done for real at some point, and it should be exactly as it happened in my head. If it is, great. If not I’ll publish a correction – you won’t find many 😉
I was about to say that I hope to become more active, then I saw my leg after being on my feet for a while.
That leg is fit for bugger all and is leaking prodigiously; I’m deeply unimpressed and the sooner my referral to the clinic yields an appointment, the better, even if it does mean a long stay in hospital to fix it, I’ve had enough of both the pain and the mess. And if it can’t be fixed – current thinking is that the Lymphoedema will be with me the rest of my life – then I want it removing. That might sound drastic and while the thought of any sort of surgery terrifies me, the thought of living with this agonising, stinking, wet mess terrifies me more. It will drive me to suicide sooner or later, and I want it gone long before that point is reached.
I’ve had no pain today, though, since taking my banned meds – Tramadol and Naproxen (the latter banned a couple of years ago on entirely spurious grounds), and for that relief I’ll happily risk any number of theoretical side effects. An online friend is sending me some Tramadol, too, which will help considerably until I can either get more or get something in its place.
And despite the letter I sent him – published here earlier today – I’ve not had so much as a phone call from my GP and I’m feeling seriously pissed off.